


Stabilize

by dreamdx (geniustakethewheel)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Permanent Injury, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Philza, philza centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29720040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniustakethewheel/pseuds/dreamdx
Summary: If grooming the remaining feathers of his useless, shattered wings had fallen to the bottom of Phil’s priority list, well. He didn’t think he could be blamed.**A character study on Philza, his trauma, and his achingly slow path to recovery.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125





	Stabilize

**Author's Note:**

> TW for non-graphic descriptions of permanent injury, allusions to torture, references to character death. Also contains L’Manberg bashing and Techno apologism. There is a nuanced conversation to be had about morality on the Dream SMP, but it goes unaddressed in this fic. 
> 
> My image of the characters in my head is based on the beautiful designs of @sennhah on twitter, specifically this image https://twitter.com/sennhah/status/1347995704518696961?s=20. Go give her some love!

The lid to the wax tin was sealed shut with time, so it took a sharp twist for Philza to wrench it open. It had been too long, clearly, but it seemed like there was always something more urgent to do. Tear down the cobblestone eyesore left by a turncoat. Set up an ender pearl stasis chamber for Techno to get home quickly after his travels. Build a damn shelter for the dogs, finally. So if grooming the remaining feathers of his useless, shattered wings had fallen to the bottom of Phil’s priority list, well. He didn’t think he could be blamed. 

With a sigh, he settled into the rickety wooden chair by the fireplace. Techno’s cabin was well-built, but even their combined efforts couldn’t keep all the drafts out during a heavy storm, and the icy wind had been finding cracks to squeeze through all day. Exposing the broad surface area of his extended wingspan to frigid arctic air was a quick way to lose all his body heat. Phil scooted closer to the fire. He wasn’t trying to speedrun hypothermia this evening.

Carefully, he stretched out his left wing. It took a while. The joints were stiff from being kept folded close to his body for god knows how long, and Philza had to pause with every shift to let the sharp ache subside. The extensor muscles had atrophied, and by the time the wing was fully unfurled, he was trembling from the effort of holding it aloft. This wasn’t new information. He should be used to it by now. It stung anyway.

Phil let the wing drop to the floor, the ragged edges of his remaining primaries splayed out over the wooden panels. He scooped wax into his palm and rubbed his hands together, letting it soften with the friction, and then loosely recapped the tin and twisted around to comb his fingers through the feathers of his leading edge. His marginal coverts were mostly intact, since they’d been facing away from the blast. Despite everything, they were still soft under his hands, and Phil let his mind wander as he methodically shifted the shafts back into alignment. 

His life out here on the tundra with Techno was good, on the whole. Surprisingly stable. When Techno had declared he was going into retirement, Philza had laughed. He’d known Techno for a long, long time and if there’s one thing he wasn’t, it was _settled_ . And in Phil's defense, it actually had taken some time for Techno to shake off the last of the bloody conflicts that seemed to pursue him. But here they were, nearly half a year later, with the execution attempt and the final destruction of L’Manberg far behind them, and things were finally, _finally_ quiet. Phil’s days were filled with the humming of bees and the smell of wood smoke and the warmth of fresh cookies brought over by Ranboo in covered baskets. After years of fighting for survival alone in vast, empty worlds, it was nice to have the chance to develop a sweet tooth on someone else’s baking. 

Phil steadily worked his way down his secondary coverts, coaxing the barbs on each feather into interlocking to form one smooth, continuous vane. The task was still muscle memory despite extended neglect, almost meditative, until he tried to angle his wing to reach his secondaries and choked on a gasp at the intensity of the cramp that gripped him. He gritted his teeth against the pain and took a deep breath, and another, and waited for it to subside.

 _Fuck_ , that hurt. This could be a wrench in the works. 

Cautiously, he lowered his wing back to the floor. He knew he needed to pick up his mobility stretches again if he wanted any chance of a normal range of movement, but the mere thought exhausted him. They’d bound his wings during the house arrest, and it had set his recovery back months. It was senseless torment, since he couldn’t fly anyway, but disproportionate punishment seemed to be the L’Manbergian way of dealing with problems.

With a final long breath, Phil blinked, hard, and shook himself. He wasn’t going to give up so easily when the job was already well underway, especially not just because some fucking kids decided he needed to be taught a lesson. 

He reached back again, keeping his wing carefully still this time. Phil could barely reach his secondaries with his arm stretched all the way back, but it was good enough. He didn’t need to see what he was doing to move his feathers into place. Minutes passed with no sign of any cramping, and Phil felt himself slide back into the rhythm of the work.

He finished the secondaries and scooped up more wax to start on the alula feathers. Without thinking, he tried arching his wing again to reach. But he _spasmed_ as his flight muscles locked into another cramp, and suddenly he was blinded with frustrated rage. With a furious shout, he flung the canister of wax across the room. It slammed into the wooden paneling of the wall, leaving a deep dent, and clattered to the floor. Phil set his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop them from burning. 

Maybe it was pointless. He’d never fly again, no matter how perfectly he groomed his remaining feathers.

His thoughts crept to his darkest days, during the long weeks of nauseatingly painful convalescence, when Phil had skirted the edge of resentment. The skies had been his solace his whole life, and Phil still longed for wind in his feathers with a ferocity that stole his breath if he thought about it for too long. But Phil had sacrificed his flight to save Wilbur from an explosion of his own making, only for Wil to beg for death moments later. A quiet, shameful part of Phil wondered if it had been worth it.

But even now, knowing the cost, knowing that Wil would die by Phil’s sword anyway, Philza didn’t think he’d be capable of acting any differently if he were to go back and do it all again. Even now, Philza couldn’t imagine a version of himself that wouldn’t instinctively fling his body between Wilbur and danger. He would have endured the overwhelming agony of having his wings torn to shreds by shrapnel a thousand times over if it meant he could’ve saved Wilbur from himself.

But he couldn't. And none of that made it any easier to bear the consequences now.

Phil breathed.

There was a soft thump at the door, and Philza looked up. Techno stood at the threshold. His eyes were dark as they scanned over the new dent in the wall and the disorderly sprawl of his wing, but they held no trace of pity. There was only grim understanding. Phil knew that the bandages perpetually wrapped around Techno’s forearms covered necrotic wounds that would never heal. He knew what Piglins suffered when they stayed too long in the overworld, and he knew that Techno was well aware of the price of living in a world you weren’t built to withstand. 

Without speaking, Techno bent to pick up the canister. Phil tracked his movements as he walked over to the fireplace and sank to the floor next to Philza’s chair. Even kneeling on the ground, Techno loomed, but it had been a long time since Phil had found that anything but comforting. Techno unscrewed the cap of the canister and leveled an even look at Phil. 

“Let me.”

After a brief silence, Phil nodded. Techno knew the in’s and out’s of wing maintenance nearly as well as Phil did, after countless nights spent patching each other up after a battle or just a sparring session. But it was still hard to shake the urge to hide his injuries away from assessing eyes. Phil turned his face to the fire and stared into the flames, trying not to tense, but he flinched despite himself as he felt a touch on his wing. Techno didn’t remark on it or pull back as he began meticulously guiding feathers into position. Phil was unspeakably grateful. 

Time passed. The tension eased from Phil’s shoulders and the set of his jaw as the fire burned down. When Techno finished on the left wing, he wordlessly helped Phil refold it and extend his right, and Phil wordlessly allowed himself to be moved. 

Philza drifted.

When he opened his eyes again, the fire had turned into coals and there was a thick blanket draped over him. Techno was gone, probably up to his loft to read one of the books he kept procuring from somewhere. Despite his doze, Phil was bone-tired. But as he glanced over his shoulder and took in the layers of feathers Techno had neatly lined up, something in him settled. 

The burden would never get lighter. He knew that. But he would get stronger, more able to carry it. And until then, he could trust Techno to help him shoulder the weight. Phil threw another log on the fire and watched as the sparks rose upward toward the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at @dreamdx. Comments very much appreciated!


End file.
